My Father tongue is my father's
But my Mother tongue
Is my Grandmother's
That's how twisted it is
But not for her
Kashmiri was all she knew
And wanted to know
She never understood any 'pairum'
Nor did she ever try to
I had to learn it for her
That was my connection
To her world
And to Kashmir
The language, the nation, the life
Her guttural Kashmiri speared
From Kabali attacks to Sheikh Abdullah
(Post-Abdullah, politics was all fuzzy for her
Just people with party names)
Along the vernacular terrain of her narrative
Lay marble milestones of Moi Muqadas theft
And visits to Hazratbal
Along with her female friends
With hard earned money from 'Yinder'
She mixed phrases and slangs
Like brush strokes of Gogh
Visible yet sublime
The obscenities from her tongue
Vibrated like a single chord
It struck music
Where she is now, they say
Arabic reigns
But I wish the divinity speaks to her
In Kashmiri and I bet
She will outwit angels
And joke about their buttock-less backs
